Race the Clock
by Dinogeek
Summary: Moriarty decides to play a new game with Sherlock and John. The stakes, one girl, dying on camera. The rules, two days to find her. Good luck. T for some slight swearing.
1. Chapter 1

A/N: Okay, I wasn't gonna jump on the bandwagon, but I find myself drawn to write my own 'Moriarty being a total creeper' fic. Just a note, if you don't like bad language, tread carefully. It's not full of it, but there's a decent amount coming from the hostage. It's justified, though, she kinda gets whumped.

* * *

><p>"Sh<em>it.<em>" Anna awoke to a pounding headache and total lack of mobility. She stared at her surroundings and tried to realign all her senses with the proper organs. Eyes seeing, ears hearing, mouth, obviously, talking. She could smell a staleness that you only got from long-abandoned buildings. She pulled at her arms, trying to move, but nothing happened. Why couldn't she move? Then, she realized she was tied to a chair. Well, this was going from bad to worse. She craned around behind her to see if she was alone. Not a good move. She was almost glad she was bound to the chair, because otherwise, she would have fallen to the floor as a wave of dizziness and nausea swept over her. She groaned heavily.

She was, as far as she could tell, alone for now. She was glad for that, because it gave her a chance to recover some composure. She swallowed hard and breathed in deep, waiting for the ill feelings to retreat. They didn't, instead, a growing tiredness behind her eyes began to force them shut. Her vision blurred, and just before she went out, she heard the sound of a door opening behind her.

* * *

><p>Sherlock threw a punch and landed it just before the door burst open and Lestrade rushed in. As he tackled the suspect, he called back, "Bloody hell, Sherlock, what part of 'wait for us' didn't you get?" He sounded more exasperated than actually angry, mostly because he knew Sherlock would just disregard it the next time.<p>

"Didn't have the time," the younger man responded casually. "He was already almost gone by the time John and I got here."

"Where is John, anyway?" Lestrade asked, looking around as he noted the other man's absence.

"Around back helping Sergeant Donovan take care of the other one. Well, I'd say this was altogether a success, how about you?" Lestrade hauled the suspect off the floor and turned him over to the PCs to take out to the police car. As the two headed down the stairs, John and Sally appeared pulling the other man along behind them. After finagling their way out of making their statements until tomorrow, as per usual, the two men hailed a cab and made their way back to Baker Street. Sherlock was over the moon, as he always was after a successfully solved case, and John couldn't help but catch some of his energy, which wasn't at all a bad thing after two days of nonstop legwork. In fact, after a case solved, killers caught, and no injuries on his or Sherlock's part in the process, John was feeling mighty fine as they headed back to 221B. He should have known it wouldn't last.

"I have a date tonight, remember?" he said. In response, he received a blank look from Sherlock. Obviously, he _didn't_ remember. John rolled his eyes and gave a small grin. "I knew you'd have deleted that by now. It's at six thirty." Sherlock gave him a slow, thoughtful nod more suited to 'let's discuss the meaning of life' than 'I'm going on a date tonight'. He quirked an eyebrow.

"Planning on coming back?" he returned mischievously with a sneaky grin of his own.

"It's only our third date, thank you very much, and yes, I'm coming back." John responded indignantly. They unlocked the door and John headed upstairs to change clothes and take a shower. It wouldn't do to go on a date smelling like he'd been running for an hour and a half, even though he _had _been running for an hour and a half.

His date had been going fine. Nice movie, nice dinner, nice wine, and half way through, John's phone began to ring. He ignored it at first and smiled at Sarah, telling her it was nothing. Then, not thirty seconds later, it rang again. He snatched it out of his pocket and looked at the caller I.D. Sherlock bloody Holmes. "Damn it." Sarah smiled, somewhat used to Sherlock's unusual concept of appropriate behavior.

"Well, I can guess who that is," she joked. John rolled his eyes.

"I told him I had a date tonight, I _told him _three hours ago, he can't possibly have deleted it that fast." He stuck his phone back in his pocket, but it only rang again, this time accompanied by the beep of a text message. Sarah laughed.

"Go ahead and answer it. It may be something serious." John sighed heavily and hit the answer button.

"What?" he asked irritably. "Did you really forget I had a date this quickly?"

"John, get back to the flat. Now." Sherlock's voice was blunt and hard, and John realized this was no laughing matter.

"What's happened?" Sarah noticed the change in his demeanor and had the feeling that their third date would be ending as abruptly as their first. Though hopefully without the kidnapping. "Is someone hurt?" Then, Sherlock said the two words that John had been hoping against hope he would never hear again.

"It's Moriarty."


	2. Chapter 2

A/N: I just realized I have some things to clear up: first and foremost (shockingly) I don't own the show, or the characters, or the actors. Second, I didn't mention this because she didn't have any speaking lines till now, but Anna's an American. Same warning about the language, because now she has someone to swear at. I apologize for how late this is, but this is my first multichapter fic and figuring out how to post the other chapters is kind of traumatizing. I'm twitching right now.

The second time Anna regained consciousness was significantly worse than the first. The dizziness seemed to be a permanent fixture, and her eyes were so heavy she could barely open them. She groaned quietly, her breathing shallow.

"Wakey, wakey!" That man was too damn cheerful for this to be a good start. Anna forced her eyes open, but her vision was so blurred that the only thing she could see was pale skin and black hair.

"Who the hell are you?" she stumbled out, so tired she couldn't even lift her head. With great effort, she pulled it up and leaned it against the back of the chair. She still couldn't move it, but at least she wasn't mumbling into her chest. The creepy pale man moved behind her and put a hand on her shoulder, near the base of her neck. She jerked to the side, attempting to pull away, but the sudden movement brought on a new wave of nausea. She clenched her jaw and squeezed her eyes shut.

"Oh, come now, is that _really_ how you greet people? What if I was here to help you?" Anna noted with slight fear that there was not a trace of sanity in his tone.

"Than you'd be untying me, dumbass, not trying to creep me out." Despite her best efforts, her voice trembled as she spoke. There were few things Anna actually feared, but this man was rapidly becoming one of them. "What the hell did you give me?" She could practically hear the smile in his voice as he responded.

"Oh, that? That was nothing serious. But I do need you in ship-shape for the next part of my little game, so I have something else to give you." She gasped as she felt a sharp pain in her arm, but she actually began to feel better. After a few minutes, the dizziness, blurred vision, and nausea had gone, and she was able to breath normally again. But her relief at her physical recovery was rapidly overshadowed by fear of what was to come next. The pale man moved his hand to her back and she responded lightning fast, pushing her shoulder into the chair, pinning his hand between them. She had caught him by surprise. "Ow! Well maybe I shouldn't have given you the antidote then! Oh, this is going to be a fun game. It's so _dull_ when all they do is sit around and cry, I can see you're not going to be like that."

"Great, so I'm your fucking pawn?" she shot back with venom. Inside, she was more scared than she had ever been in her life.

"Well, yes, when you put it like that. You're probably going to die, but I'm sure you've guessed that already. Now why don't you let my hand go before I get someone in here to pull you off of me?" He spoke flippantly, but there was a dangerous undertone to his words. She relaxed her shoulder and he pulled his hand out. "Good. Well, I'll be back. For now, you can just relax and say hi to the camera. I have a few preparations to make, but we'll be seeing much more of each other very soon."

Anna looked in front of her and, sure enough, there was a video camera next to a laptop computer on a table. With one last pat on her head, Moriarty stalked out, thinking to himself that he would rather enjoy killing this one. She had bruised his damn hand.

John was in the mood to shoot something. Namely, Moriarty, several times. After making hasty excuses to Sarah ("It's alright, really, it was a nice dinner. We can make it up when you've finished the case.") he had rushed back to Baker Street and pounded up the stairs. All the fear he had felt at the pool had come rushing back as he pushed open the door, but to his relief Sherlock was safe and unharmed, pacing the room in agitation.

"What's happened?" John asked. Sherlock turned to face him and thrust a picture in his direction.

"Look on the back. He paid a messenger to bring it here. No name on the girl." The photo was of a teenage girl lying unconscious in the back of a van. At least, John hoped she was unconscious, because he didn't want to think much about the alternative. He turned the photo over and read the writing on the back. Not much, just 'Have you missed me? Jim Moriarty' and a string of numbers and letters. "Some kind of password." Sherlock said, as if he could read John's thoughts. "For what, though, I don't know. But I have a feeling we'll find out."

They waited the rest of the evening, and through most of the night, but nothing happened. No explosions, no missing person reports, no indication that anything untoward was happening anywhere. So, they kept waiting. It was noon the next day before they got the message. Sherlock was typing on his laptop when his email pinged. He tensed visibly at the noise and John, who had been coming out of the kitchen with tea, stopped dead.

"Is it him?" he asked quietly. Sherlock pulled up the email. No sender's account name, and no subject, just a link. There were no words in the message, but it was obvious who it was from. The two men held their breath and clicked. The screen came up black, with a text box in the middle. Sherlock turned the photo over and entered the code written on the back. The screen cut to an obviously abandoned building. There was a chair in the middle, and the girl from the photo was tied into it. John was relieved to see that she was very much alive, and as a matter of fact, seemed to be yelling swear words at someone they couldn't see. The sound came in and they heard an all too familiar high, Irish voice.

"Well, _hello _there." John clenched his jaw as the pool flashed through his mind. One glance told him Sherlock was remembering the same thing.

"What do you want?"

"Well, I can see you're not in the mood to waste words. Don't worry, I won't keep you too long, you have something important to be doing."

"Oh, and what's that?" Sherlock's tone was as light as Moriarty's, but there was a thinly veiled hardness that belied his anger.

"You have to save her. That is what you do, isn't it?"


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: Sorry this update is so late (and filler-y), but I had to move into college, so, yeah… stressful. Proper classes don't start till Monday, but I have orientation all this week. (Un)surprisingly, I still don't own Sherlock, but I will never stop holding that I wouldn't mind if he was sold to me.**

* * *

><p>"What do you mean 'save her'?" Sherlock sounded confused. Whether it was genuine or a show put on to deceive Moriarty, John couldn't tell. "You haven't even given me anything to go on. Or do you expect me to find that out for myself?" Sudden tone change. So, the confusion was a show, then.<p>

"Well, yes. That's pretty much it. _Oh, wait_, there is more. I'd almost forgotten." Moriarty stepped in front of the camera and held up a needle. "This contains a very nasty, very slow acting poison. From the moment it enters the human body to the moment that person dies is, oh, about two days. That's your time limit. See, I'm going to give my guest here this poison, and just so you know I'm not fibbing, I'll do it right now, on camera."

Moriarty walked over to the girl, who twisted violently as he approached her. Despite being bound to the chair in such a way that she could barely move, she put up such a fight that eventually he had to put his arm around her and pull her back into the chair. She shouted as he pushed the needle into her arm and depressed the plunger. She tried yelling something into the camera, but she'd only gotten out a half of a word before he clapped his hand over her mouth. He faced the camera again and continued speaking.

"Now you know what to do. You have two days to find her, or she dies. Oh, and I'll make sure to leave the camera running so you can see every last second of it. It's time to start playing the new game, Sherlock. Good luck." The sound cut out to the video but, as promised, the camera kept running. John swore loudly, leapt up, and began to pace the room, running a hand through his hair. Sherlock put down the laptop and did a thousand-yard stare, resting his chin on his fingertips, as was his habit. Then suddenly he jumped up, threw on his coat, and turned to John.

"Come on. We're going to the Yard."

"But do you really think Moriarty won't consider that some violation of his rules, or whatever?" John practically spat the word rules. "The last thing we need is another dead body."

"True, but he didn't care the last time. More than likely he thinks the police are so incompetent that they won't be of any use, so involving them wouldn't violate any of his rules." The two men headed towards the door and down the stairs.

They reached the bottom and stepped into the cold street, and as they hailed a cab, John shot out, "You know, Sherlock, I'm getting bloody tired of playing by _his_ rules."

Lestrade was, to put it very mildly, irritated by the news of Moriarty's return. John had never heard the man swear like that before. When he was through, Sherlock spoke up. "We need to figure out what her name is. Have you had any new missing person reports in the last two days?" Even as he asked, Lestrade was already looking through the database.

"Five throughout the country in the last two days. What else can you give me to narrow it down?"

"Female, in her teens, light brown hair." Lestrade shook his head in disbelief. It took a real scumbag to use a teenage girl as bait. But then, he supposed, using a ten year old boy hadn't been below him, so why should using anyone else weigh on his mind?

"Nothing. The only woman on the list is twenty seven, blonde. Care to explain this one to me?"

Sherlock clenched his jaw in frustration. "That makes no sense. It would be impossible to find her unless- oh." His face cleared and took on a moment-of-revelation look. "She's not from here. Do you remember, John, when she started to speak, but Moriarty stopped her? That's what he was trying to cover up, she has a different accent. Lestrade, check an international list, probably American."

"There're three matching the description you gave. Anna Patterson, Taylor Purdue, and Kate Thompson. All American, in their teens, with light brown hair. Take a look at the photos, see if you can match one up." He turned the computer screen to face Sherlock.

"It's the first one." He nodded his head at top picture and read out the information. "Anna Patterson, seventeen, from San Antonio, Texas. Went to England for vacation with a school trip but never turned up at her hotel. That's where we need to start." He turned to John and Lestrade. He seemed to be buzzing with energy, bouncing on the balls of his feet.

John knew that part of him should have been, and used to be, disturbed by Sherlock's unbridled excitement when someone else's life was at stake, but after the disastrous events leading up to the pool, he was just as happy to jump at the chance to catch Moriarty. Or at the very least show him up, which to that man would have been almost as bad as being caught.

Ten minutes later, case file in hand, Sherlock and John were on their way to the hotel to meet up with Anna Patterson's school group.

* * *

><p><strong>Sorry for the abrupt ending, but this was the only reasonable cut off point I could find. Should have chapter 4 up soon, because it's basically a continuation of this, but it would have been a humungous chapter if I'd done the whole thing. Hopefully it'll start to pick up after this. <strong>


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N: Yay for first day of college… and that it's short. Especially that it's short. This was actually a pretty quick chapter to write, so I'm really hoping the speed doesn't show in the quality. :) Thanks to all the people who alerted and favorited and especially the ones who reviewed (hint hint cough). **

As the cab pulled up outside the hotel, John couldn't help but be reminded that their forty eight hours were now down to forty seven. He glanced sideways at Sherlock, who was gazing out the window so ferociously that John felt he could do anything short of jumping out of the moving car and the younger man wouldn't notice. When the cab arrived, Sherlock still made no move to get up, and finally John shook him gently by the arm. He nearly jumped a mile in surprise, but John just smiled and said, "Come on."

Anna Patterson's teacher was a perpetually youngish looking woman, despite actually being in her late forties. John got the distinct impression that she was a bit… floaty. Nice lady, really, she was, but she wasn't a whole lot of help.

"When we got out of the airport, we decided to walk to the hotel instead of drive, you know, to do some sightseeing."

"All the way from the airport? That must have been a long walk." John commented. The teacher nodded in response.

"Yes, it was about an hour, but the weather was nice and all the students were up for it." Sherlock, who had been pacing back and forth like a caged tiger as they spoke, turned back to the conversation.

"Where are the other students? We need to speak with them."

"Oh, they're all upstairs in their rooms. There are only about ten who came on the trip. I'll go and get them for you."

As she departed, John looked at Sherlock and raised his eyebrows, mouthing 'wow'. Sherlock grinned in response. Taking advantage of the briefly lightened mood, John said, "Hey, Sherlock, maybe lay off on the intensity a bit when you're talking to a group of high schoolers, yeah? It's just that you were about to pace a hole straight through the floor just now," he added in response to Sherlock's questioning look. The other man nodded in understanding, but his face remained hard set as the students congregated around them, looking at him nervously. John sighed inwardly. It had been worth a shot. At least he'd stopped pacing.

The students collectively could do little better than their teacher. It was understandable, given the strong emotions, plus the fact that no one bothered to deliberately remember something like the route they had taken from the airport two days ago unless they had a reason to. Still, after one irritated verging on over the line comment from Sherlock, John decided it was better that _he_ did the talking instead. Shuffling him out of the way with a very pointed look, John smiled at the group, who tentatively smiled back.

"So, let's start with something simple, who was the last person to see Anna?" A short, dark haired girl standing near the back raised her hand. "What's your name?"

"Raina." John could barely hear her.

"Okay, Raina, when did you last see her?"

"It was-" she coughed as her voice stuck in her throat. "It was when we were walking here from the airport. She and I were at the back, so that we could walk a little slower and take more time to look around." John gave her a reassuring smile. The poor girl was so nervous that she was practically trembling, thinking that she had done something wrong.

"That's why he went after her, instead of one of the others." Sherlock muttered, quietly enough that no one else could hear, especially the other students. "It was a long walk, she was straggling behind the others already… All he'd need would be a momentary diversion, and chances are, no one notices until they reach the hotel." John picked up when Sherlock took a breath.

"Yeah, and even then they wouldn't call the police immediately, they'd call her phone, or assume she was just late or catching up."

"Exactly. He may be absolutely mad, but he damn well knows how to do his job. Bloody brilliant!" John was especially glad the other students couldn't hear that last exclamation. The last thing they needed was for Sherlock to get himself banned from _another_ establishment for his conduct. Lord knew that every place they went they'd either get free food or they wouldn't even be let in the door. John turned back to the kids.

"Do you remember what route you took to get here? Did you just follow the main road, or what?" The students glanced at each other, between them managing to come up with the path. As both men had suspected, it followed the main streets through the city, where all the most touristy things could be found. John barely stopped from groaning out loud. That really _was_ an hour's walk, and following it carefully enough to determine where Anna was taken would at least double that time, if not triple it. A task that would take a serious bite out of their already dangerously dwindling time. He turned back to Raina. "Okay, when was the last time you remember seeing Anna?" She chewed the inside of her cheek and said she couldn't remember.

"We were both distracted by the buildings, and we weren't really paying attention to each other that much. But I do remember, about ten minutes in, she made some comment to me about the river, but I don't know exactly where we were then." The two men glanced at each other, thanked the teacher and students, and left quickly.

"Bloody hell," John burst out when the door had swung shut behind them. "It's going to take at least two hours to go over that whole route. We don't have that kind of time, Sherlock."

"We don't need to cover the whole route, just up to the point where she was taken. And there're only a specific number of places you can kidnap someone on a highly trafficked road and not be seen." John could already see Sherlock going through his mental map, including every possible feature he could remember, forming the plan. "Okay, I think I've got it. We need to start from the airport and work our way back here, because if we go backwards, it changes everything." They hailed a cab and jumped in, offering extra money to get there _fast_.

"Couldn't Lestrade and his men help us search? It'll save time." John asked, but he knew what the answer would be.

"No point. They don't know what to look for. We have to find it ourselves or we could very well miss it." Sherlock returned his gave to the window, his eyes moving rapidly, scouring every minute detail, looking for the ideal combination of circumstances. As promised, the cab pulled up outside the terminal about twenty minutes sooner than it would have otherwise, and after paying the fee plus the extra money, the two men got out and began to survey the path they would be following. John sighed.

"This is going to be a long bloody walk."

* * *

><p><strong>Fun with Microsoft... NOT! I meant to post this hours ago, but then all of a sudden Works froze. Solid. For six hours. I had to crash it and give it a hard restart. It was... harrowing. I now want to kill my laptop. But I didn't, because it's new, and expensive. Not worth the fun it would be. <strong>


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N: Now that I've finally gotten over that weird part in between the intro and the action, it's going a lot quicker. Whew. I keep forgetting to say this (mostly because the sun will nova before it's true) but I still do not own Sherlock, or the BBC. If I did, the new season would be out now. Right now.**

"Sherlock? Do you think it might be this one?" John called out. He was not a man to run out of breath easily, not after his time in the army, but stress, exertion, and general exhaustion were taking their toll on him. It wouldn't have been so bad if they hadn't just finished another case the day Moriarty had come calling again. One was enough to wear him out, what with the general lack of sleeping and eating and _so much running._ To start another with no break in between was going to mean an even more difficult next two days.

"I don't think so. There's wet mud on the ground, but no footprints in it. If she were taken here, there would be some sign of a struggle." John cursed so loudly that he startled the woman passing them on the street. Even though they only had to track down a very limited number of places, they had already been at it for two hours. Even with that small number, they couldn't eliminate many of them outright, only mark them off on the map as potential sites.

"I'll tell Lestrade not to send a man out here, than." John pulled out his phone and texted the inspector. He had been sending a uniform out to watch each of the potentials, on the extremely off chance that any of Moriarty's men returned to them. "How many more to go?" The exhaustion must have shown in his voice, because Sherlock gave him the sideways head tilt John had learned to associate with the taller man attempting to demonstrate care for another person.

"I can finish this myself if you'd like. There aren't too many more to go. Only three."

"Three? That's very specific." John gave a slight laugh. "How can you tell?" Sherlock pointed.

"There's the hotel. I can see until the end of the route here. No more than three spots fit the criterion. There's a bench over here, you can sit down and I'll finish up the map." Sherlock seemed to have made up his mind, because he pulled John bodily over to the seat and practically forced him into it. Ignoring his halfhearted protests, Sherlock kept pushing him back in every time John attempted to stand up.

Finally, John surrendered, catching his breath as Sherlock darted on ahead. The next two proved to be just as probable, but with no signs to indicate a struggle. The third and final, the alley bordering the hotel, was a hell of a long shot, but he checked it out just as carefully as the others. As he crouched on the ground, he heard footsteps approaching. Without turning or otherwise indicating that he'd heard anything, he deduced what he could about the walker. Small, young, probably one of the students. Not making any attempt to sneak up on him. Good thing, too, because it wasn't easy to sneak up on Sherlock Holmes. And it was also a very bad idea.

Abruptly, he stood up and wheeled around. It was Raina, who jumped so nervously that she almost tripped standing still. He looked at her evenly, waiting for her to say something. After a second, she realized he wasn't going to start the conversation.

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to startle you. I was just wondering what you were doing. I- I mean…" She trailed off and swallowed.

"I'm attempting to determine where Anna was when she was taken." Sherlock was just as blunt as usual, but his words lacked the hard edge he adopted with adults. It was a surprise to everyone who knew him, but Sherlock actually did like children, and was capable of being very nice to them. "Something's bothering you," he observed. "More than just the obvious."

Raina looked briefly surprised, and avoided his gaze as she responded, "Nothing." Sherlock narrowed his eyes slightly. Definitely lying. He moved over to the hotel steps and sat down on them.

"You don't have to lie to me. I'm trying to help. Here, come and sit down." She perched on the edge of the step, staring hard off into the distance. "Did you remember something important?" She shook her head. Then, quite abruptly, she started to cry. Oh, not good. Sherlock started really wishing that he hadn't left John behind. He had a long, poor track record when it came to the whole 'comforting' area. After one memorable failure, John had asked with a slight amount of seriousness if Sherlock had ever heard of the Vulcans before.

After that particular incident, John had taken it upon himself to educate Sherlock in the proper conduct in that type of situation, because quite frankly, both of them were tired of being punched. So Sherlock bit his lip, remembered his training, and slowly put his arm around the weeping girl. After a couple of minutes, she calmed down enough to speak.

"I'm just worried… I don't want to be the last one to see her alive and not even remember what she said to me." This led only to another fit of crying.

"Don't worry, you won't be the last one to see her alive." Sherlock neglected to mention that if all went according to Moriarty's plan, _he_ would be the last person to see Anna Patterson alive. Even he knew that was a bad idea. He breathed a sigh of relief when he saw John approaching, mouthing 'help me, will you?' John nodded and sat next to her as Sherlock stood up. After ten more minutes, Raina stopped crying and John took her back inside the hotel. On the way in, she stopped and turned to face Sherlock.

"If I remember something, where can I find you to tell you?" Sherlock pulled a piece of paper out of his pocket, scrawled out his address and cell phone number, and handed it to her. She stuck it in her pocket and returned to her room. John turned to face Sherlock and the corners of his mouth twitched up.

"Well, I don't know that you could have looked any more awkward when I came around the corner."

"I tried!" Sherlock responded defensively. "I just forgot what you said to do after put my arm around her."

"You mean you deleted it. You do realize that when you're not acting, you're a really bad liar, right?" John gave him a full smile this time, clapped him on the shoulder, and said, "Back to the Yard?"

"Back to the Yard."

Raina sat on her bed, wracking her brain to remember what Anna had said to her. She sighed and flopped backwards in defeat. All she could remember was something about the river. It had been a quick comment, and she had almost muttered it. The best she could sketch together was 'I'll bet that river is smelly'. No help at all. No, wait, she'd left something out. She could have sworn there was a 'be' in there somewhere. But there was no place for it, unless… That was it! She'd remembered. They'd been walking along the road and they could see the Thames and Anna had muttered to her 'I'll bet that river'll be smelly.' But that still wasn't any help, and why would she even say that? It made no sense; they weren't going to the river at any point in the trip. But still, the tall man had told her to call if she remembered anything, and he was the detective after all, maybe he could make sense of it.

Raina pulled out her cell phone and the scrap of paper with the number on it. She dialed, waited, and received a busy signal. He must have been talking to someone else. He had included his address on the paper. 221B Baker Street. She looked it up on the internet. It was a short walk. She debated with herself, and finally decided she would go there. If they weren't in, she could call him again later, and if they were, then they could explain to Ms. Rawlins where she'd gone.

She nodded to herself decisively, grabbed her coat, and slipped out the back exit. She didn't even notice the man following her.

**Cliffhanger! Not really, though, because nothing happens to her. Yet. Geez, I should really stop putting kids in danger, shouldn't I? You know what y'all should do? Review, because it makes me warm and fuzzy on the inside. :) **


	6. Chapter 6

**A/N: This is going to be a long note, but please read it. We're approaching the tenth anniversary of September 11th, and I feel that it's important to spread the word about the Million Lives Campaign. For complete information and a list of suggestions, you can go to the KLove Radio Station website. Basically what it is, is you just go out on the anniversary and do something good for someone, no matter how big or small. The objective is to change at least one million lives that day. I'm not just asking the Americans to do this, I'm asking everyone, no matter what nationality you are, because that's the only real way to stop the terrorists; to band together, no matter what country you live in, or language you speak, and do good in defiance of their evil. If you post on a fic before 9/11, please help spread the word too. Now for something completely different.**

* * *

><p>Let no one call Jim Moriarty a stupid man. People had before, and without exception, they hadn't lived long enough to regret it. He'd known Anna would try to pass on a message and had probably succeeded. Now it was just a question of watching the small one. He didn't know her name and didn't care to. If she knew nothing, she would be no help to the police, and therefore not worth killing. If, on the other hand, she did know something, than she could easily be taken care of. He allowed himself to relax and waited for his man to report back. A voice crackled over the radio set on his desk.<p>

"Sir?" Speak of the devil. Moriarty picked up the other handset.

"Where did she go?"

"Baker Street. They weren't there, though. I've followed her back to the hotel." Moriarty clenched his jaw. Idiot. He should have killed the girl when he'd gotten the chance. Still, the man was one of his best agents, so he let it pass, for now. The displeasure was obvious in his tone as he answered.

"If she goes out again, kill her. Don't _wait._" There was only a second's hesitation.

"Yes, sir."

* * *

><p>Anna forced her breathing to calm down. When they'd tied her up, they'd neglected to remove her watch, and she saw that it had been about four and a half hours since she'd been poisoned. She unclenched her hands. The poison was spread through the bloodstream, so the lower she could keep her heart rate, the better. Easier said than done when you had to place your life in the hands of two people you'd never seen hide nor hair of before.<p>

She'd just managed to relax herself when the door opened so forcefully it slammed back on its hinges. She opened her eyes with a jolt and felt her pulse jump, along with the rest of her. It was the dark haired man. "Oh. Jackass," she muttered, just quietly enough for him not to hear. She was pretty sure he caught the gist of it, though.

He didn't act violently. Quite the opposite, he was too still and slow in his movements. Absolutely calm. Somehow, that was far more frightening. He stood directly in front of her and put his hands on the arms of the chair. He leaned in so close they were almost nose to nose.

"What did you say to the short one?" If he had been asking her this yesterday, she probably would have told him. But not now. She snorted slightly and grinned.

"I don't want to hurt you more-" what a total liar "-but I will if you do not tell me what I want to know." She grinned wider and finally deigned to respond.

"No, you won't." She had finally gotten one up on him, she could tell, and it was all she could do not to laugh out loud. He didn't move, but his mouth widened slightly, as if no one had ever dared to contradict him in the open before. More than likely, no one had. After a beat, he recovered his composure, but she had upset him. His fingers clenched the arms of the chair so hard they turned bone white.

"Oh, won't I?" he drawled.

"Nope!" Anna responded cheerfully. "You wanna know why? Because you've already poisoned me. Now all you have to do is wait. If you kill me before the poison does, it'll mess up your _game_." She mimicked him on the last word. In reality, she had no idea whether or not he would spare her from further harm. It was a hell of a gamble, but she was in a hell of a mood, and she really didn't care either way.

"You know, you can keep as quiet as you want, but I never said anything about _killing_ you before the poison does." Her blood ran cold at the implications of his words, but she remained steadfastly silent. She was already knee deep in shit, but she couldn't put her good friend and one hope in an even worse position. She clenched her fingers around his and looked him straight in the eye. She made her decision.

"Sorry, dude," She smiled but her eyes were hard. "Not sayin' another word."

* * *

><p>Sherlock didn't check his cell very often when he wasn't expecting anyone to phone. So it wasn't until almost seven in the evening that he noticed Raina's missed call. He scowled at his phone. Stupid. He should have checked earlier. He punched the redial button. It went straight to the girl's voicemail without even ringing. He swore out loud and John looked at him.<p>

"What's wrong?"

"Raina called about two and a half hours ago. I just tried to call her back. Her phone's turned off." John detected the worry in his voice and tried to reassure him.

"She might be out somewhere, or maybe she just forgot to charge it or switch it off."

"She's a teenage girl, John, she wouldn't forget to charge her phone, and she definitely wouldn't turn it off."

"She could be out someplace with the school group."

"At seven 'o clock at night?" he asked rhetorically. He strode back and forth, running a hand repeatedly through his already tangled curls. "No, he's sent someone after her. Stupid, stupid, I should have realized! Mrs. Hudson?" he bellowed down the stairs. John cut in, bothered by his friend's agitation.

"Hey, you're not a psychic, are you? You can't think of everything, no one can," he reassured the taller man. Mrs. Hudson hurried up the stairs at Sherlock's yell. Mrs. Hudson might just have been the calmest person John had ever encountered, bar none. She retained her composure through all the erratic hours and villains and crazy experiments the two men's presence threw at her. Sherlock's deep voice shook John out of his reverie.

"Did anyone come here this afternoon, when we were out at the Yard?"

"Oh, yes, dear, a young girl came by. She looked very upset. She asked to talk to you."

"Did she say if she would be coming back, or when?" Sherlock swept over to the hallway and threw on his coat and scarf. Taking the example, John pulled on his own jacket.

"She said she might come back in the evening, if she got the time. Where are you going, you two?"

"The hotel." Sherlock told her brusquely. "Come on, John. We don't have much time." As the two men dashed into the cold night, John asked the detective,

"How are we going to find her? If she isn't there, I mean."

"Trace her route." Sherlock hailed a passing taxi. "She's a visitor, never been in town before. She'll take the most direct route she can find, but she'll probably have gone out the back of the hotel to avoid being spotted."

"Okay, that all makes sense, but we're overlooking the obvious question: _why_ would Moriarty send someone after her? Raina's not part of his game." Sherlock looked at him squarely, and John knew he wouldn't like what the detective said next.

"Chances are, she remembered something and told the wrong person, or he could have had someone tailing her the whole time. She may not have been part of his game before, but she is now."


	7. Chapter 7

**A/N: Wow, late update is late. Sorry. My muse abandoned me (finally got it back (yay)) and my homework embraced me. 0-o Just checking… nah, still not mine. I can dream, though. And you guys can review. :) It doesn't hurt, I promise. And it makes me feel good. **

* * *

><p>Sherlock tapped his fingers on his knee and stared out the window. John knew he was doing exactly what he'd been doing earlier, looking for the best spot for a potential attack. John pulled out his phone to call Lestrade, and by the time he'd finished explaining the situation the two men had already reached the hotel. Sherlock swept up to the reception desk.<p>

"The school group that's here, the Americans, I need to speak with their teacher right now. Where is she?" His abruptness seemed to confuse the receptionist, and Sherlock tried again. "Mrs. Rawlins, the American woman, what room is she staying in?" The still-flustered young woman pulled up the records, but by then, Sherlock's sudden appearance had caused such a commotion that the whole group had come down stairs just to see what was going on. Mrs. Rawlins stepped foreward.

"What's all this about?" she asked. Sherlock turned to her, not wasting words to explain the situation.

"Where's Raina?" Mrs. Rawlins looked around, doing a quick headcount.

"She's not with the group," she responded worriedly. "Where could she have gone?" Sherlock rushed off without replying, leaving John to cut the poor woman off the hook and explain the situation to her. Then he hurried around to the back exit to catch up with the detective. "Did she come through here, can you tell?" he asked. The other man nodded shortly.

"There's the print from her shoes, going down the alleyway. She couldn't have headed this way more than thirty minutes ago. John, I need you to go back to the flat. She might have made it there. I'll follow her trail for as long as I can, but I probably won't get much more."

"Why not?" Sherlock pointed to a spot about thirty feet up the road.

"The asphalt. There won't be any prints for me to follow, unless she goes into more mud." As John raced to catch a cab, Sherlock laid himself out flat on the ground, looking for every detail with expert eyes. Raina's footprints and the tracks of a larger, older person. Male, about five foot ten, with a heavier indentation on his right leg than on his left. Probably from the weight of a gun or knife, although his opinion leaned toward the former. Sherlock didn't often admit that he was at a disadvantage, but he had to admit it now. No leads, their only witness missing and quite possibly dead, and the clock now down by half a day. Their window of opportunity was shrinking fast.

Sherlock closed his eyes and put his fingers to his temples, picturing the map of London. He figured out the quickest route to Baker Street. That was probably the one Raina had taken. She would have had to have looked it up on the internet, and she would have chosen the one that would get her there the fastest. Out the back way, down the alley, onto the road, and it was just three blocks straight to Baker Street. Sherlock took off down the path, looking for more clues with every step.

* * *

><p>John got out of the cab in front of 221B and raced in. A quick check with Mrs. Hudson confirmed that Raina hadn't been there in the time they'd been gone. "Damn it," John muttered. He pulled out his phone and called Sherlock.<p>

"Any sign of her?"

"She hasn't been back to the flat, and I didn't see her on the road," John responded. Sherlock cursed, something that John had rarely heard from the detective, and it was an obvious sign of how stressed he was getting. Much as Sherlock was capable of swearing blind that he didn't need to eat and barely needed to sleep while on a case, he was only human, and if he was off his game, it meant the end of at least one person's life. "I'll keep waiting. Call me if you find her." John hung up and leaned his head against the window, staring into the street. "Damn it," he muttered again.

Outside, despite the late hour, Baker Street was still fairly crowded. He didn't see Raina until she knocked frantically on the door. At the sound, John turned and bolted down the stairs and pulled the door open. She was leaning heavily against the frame, and looked ill. She was clutching her arm to her stomach.

"What's wrong?" John looked her up and down, seeing a lot of blood but no physical injury. Raina moved her arm away from her front and turned the inside to him. There was a long, vicious cut along the length of her forearm, obviously from a knife, and dangerously close to the artery.

"Shit," John swore loudly and picked her up into his arms as she began to fall. How in the hell she had even made it over to the flat in that state was a mystery to John, but he ignored that question for later. He could feel himself slipping into doctor mode as he dashed up the stairs, and he hollered over his shoulder, "Mrs. Hudson, I need an ambulance!" Raina was close to unconsciousness by then, unable to support herself or even sit up, and John didn't know where to put her to work on her. She was so small and light that finally he just put her on the kitchen table, running into the bathroom, where he kept his First Aid kit. He worked quickly and efficiently, forcing himself to ignore the fact that there was a child bleeding out on his kitchen table. His mind focused entirely on wrapping this, and putting pressure on that, and he wanted to slice Moriarty's arm open and see how _he_ liked it and- no, focus, John. Raina lost consciousness completely just before the ambulance got there, and as the paramedics rushed up the stairs, John yelled,

"In here. The kitchen." He backed off as the paramedics surrounded her and prepared to put her on a stretcher. He had a difficult time explaining the situation to them.

"No, no, she's not my family. She's visiting, a tourist... No, I don't know what happened exactly, but someone tried to kill her... I'm _going _to call the police, as soon as you stop pestering me and get her to the bloody hospital!" By this point he was yelling, and as the paramedic finally broke away, he made to take out his phone. Then he stopped, remembering the blood on his hands. He stared at them for a second, then shook his head slowly and turned to the sink, scrubbing off his hands longer than was completely necessary. He pulled out his cell phone, and dialed Lestrade's number, wasting no time when the other man picked up.

"Moriarty sent a man to kill one of the students. She's alive, but it's not very good right now. They're taking her over to Bart's." Lestrade's response was equally clipped.

"Meet me there. Where's Sherlock?"

"Looking for the hit man. He sent me back to wait in case Raina turned up."

"Wait, so you two were expecting her?"

"Yeah, it's a long story, look, I'll tell you the whole thing when I see you at the hospital, okay?" Lestrade sighed.

"It was a long story when you explained it to me an hour ago." John could practically hear him shaking his head over the phone. "Alright, explain there. And John?"

"What?"

"Might want to tell Sherlock you've found her." In all the confusion, John had almost forgotten that Sherlock was still out there, searching for Raina. He hung up after agreeing to meet Lestrade outside Raina's hospital room and phoned Sherlock.

"Someone tried to stab her. She's on her way to the hospital," he told him. "Lestrade wants us to meet him there. Any luck finding Moriarty's man?"

"No. Tell him I'm on my way. I-" Sherlock cut off abruptly and John heard the sound of his phone hitting the pavement, followed by blows being struck. John yelled into the phone.

"Sherlock? Sherlock!" No answer. Then, he heard his friend's voice over the speaker.

"I found him, John!" John shook his head in exasperation, running a hand through his hair.

"No shit."


	8. Chapter 8

**A/N: I'm glad I finally got the ball rolling again. You know, reviews might help me get done faster (hint, hint). Special thanks to Cookie05, who has reviewed the last 5 chapters. And now, without further ado, chapter eight!**

* * *

><p>Sherlock couldn't help but appreciate the irony of Moriarty's man attacking him not five seconds after he complained of being unable to find him. The man wasn't all that much of a fighter, mostly brute force and muscle. Still, he was a great deal larger than the lanky detective, and he gave Sherlock quite a fight. He swung a punch at Sherlock's head, which the other man ducked, and his fist connected painfully with the brick wall. Sherlock took advantage of his distraction and delivered a powerful blow to his stomach, doubling the hit man over with a groaning noise. The hit man returned with a punch to the side that sent Sherlock reeling against the opposite wall. Something glinted as he stood back up and Sherlock remembered John telling him Raina had had a knife wound. When the hit man pulled it out, Sherlock saw that there were still small traces of blood on the handle and blade. Weaponless, he was at a severe disadvantage, so he seized a discarded piece of plastic tubing from a nearby trash bin and whirled it like a quarterstaff. The hit man smirked at him, no doubt thinking that a piece of tube was useless against a knife, but what he didn't appreciate was the fact that it was being wielded by one Sherlock Holmes, who was widely known for his ability to improvise. Very well. When the man lunged at him with the knife, Sherlock swung his arm away with the pipe, bringing the other end up to meet the man's temple hard. He stumbled for a brief second and Sherlock took the opportunity to press him up against the alley wall with the end of the tube pressed to his windpipe. The man was trapped, the extra length of the pipe putting Sherlock's torso and arms out of reach to his knife.<p>

"Well, I'd say you're all together stuck, wouldn't you?" Sherlock gave the man a cold grin. Then abruptly, he swung the pipe up and around, connecting it solidly with the hit man's skull. He crashed to the ground, landing hard. Sherlock dusted himself off, picked up his phone, and told an extremely relieved John that he'd meet him at Bart's. He hadn't even gotten out of the alley behind the hotel when the fight had started. More then likely, Moriarty's man had just been coming back to get rid of any possible evidence; running into Sherlock had been nothing more than a coincidence. He went back and told the security guards that on no account was this man to be handed over to anyone but the police. It was mostly just precaution. Moriarty wouldn't have told the hit man where Anna was, he was too paranoid. More than likely, he had no useful information for them. Sherlock left the hotel and caught a cab to Bart's hospital.

* * *

><p>Lestrade rubbed his temples as he faced John. "So, explain to me again how a sixteen year old girl ends up bleeding on your doorstep."<p>

"I don't know the whole story, but it seems like Moriarty knew she was coming to us; he probably had someone following her. So, he sent someone to finish her off."

"Yes, a very large someone. It's rather over the top, but then that's to be expected from him." Sherlock had an affinity for dramatic entrances, and this one was no different.

"Speaking of over the top…" John muttered to the Inspector as Sherlock swept up to them. Lestrade shot him a grin before turning to Sherlock. "So what did you do with the other one?" John asked him. "The one I heard you fighting."

"Hmm? Oh, I left him at the hotel."

"I'll send a man 'round to pick him up." Lestrade pulled out his phone. When he was finished with the call, he turned back to Sherlock. "So, I know that Moriarty sent someone to kill her, but why? Why go after an American schoolgirl? Well, another one," he amended. Sherlock shrugged.

"She said that she and Anna had been standing in the back, apart from the rest. He probably thought that Anna had managed to pass on a message before she was taken and wanted to eliminate a possible threat."

"Well, he did a bang-up job," John responded. "The surgeon thinks Raina's going to be fine, but she probably won't wake up for several hours."

"Do you think she does know something?" Lestrade asked. Sherlock nodded.

"Almost certainly. Otherwise, Moriarty wouldn't risk drawing attention to her and us possibly finding out." The questions over for now, the two men left the hospital and headed back to their flat. There was still blood on the kitchen table from John's first aid, and he stared at it, not wanting to touch the stain. Sherlock saw the look on his face.

"I'll clean this up; you go take a break." John nodded and went over to the couch. Sherlock's laptop sat open on the coffee table, the video still running. Neither man could bring themselves to watch it, but the file couldn't be closed down. John could tell the effects of the poison were starting to kick in; Anna was pale, already developing dark circles underneath her eyes, and she seemed to be hyperventilating. John turned the laptop around, shaking his head, and leaned his chin on his clasped fingers.

Sherlock came wordlessly out of the kitchen, having cleaned and bleached the table to his satisfaction, and sat in his normal chair, clearly thinking hard. John left him to it, not asking questions. Any questions now would either be ignored completely or answered with short snaps. He just hoped that genius brain would come up with a solution in time.

* * *

><p>Anna's eyelids fluttered as her head spun in circles. Her near-constant hyperventilation was making her heart rate erratic, pounding one second and then almost stopping another. If this was what the poison had done to her in the first twelve hours, she preferred not to think about what the next thirty six might possibly be like. The camera was still in front of her, recording, as promised. Anna wanted to smash it. The door opened again and Moriarty entered. Last time, his movements had been collected to the point of hyper-controlled. Not this time. He strode up to her and grabbed her by the shirt front, and would have pulled her out of the chair if it weren't for the ropes. She winced at the odd angle it left her wrists in, but didn't say anything.<p>

"Tell me what you said to her." He enunciated every word, his voice holding barely controlled fury. There were still thirty six hours to go, his best man had failed to kill a teenage girl and then proceeded to get his ass roundly kicked by that bloody detective, and now the girl might wake up and give the game away at any moment. The cards were being played, and they weren't falling in Moriarty's favor. Anna stared back just as resolutely, but with far less venom. The poison was taking its toll on her, but she still wouldn't talk. If this bastard couldn't do his own job, as far as she was concerned it wasn't _her_ job to do it for him. Her lack of reaction seemed to push Moriarty over the edge, and he shoved her back down in the chair and began to speak.

"Do you want to know what'll happen to you over the next thirty six hours? As the poison spreads through your system, you'll get lightheaded, and nauseous, and then your muscles will start losing their tone. Eventually, you'll be paralyzed, and then you'll probably die of respiratory failure. And throughout this whole thing, your mind will be very much unaffected. You will know what is happening. Do you know why I'm telling you this?" Anna decided to take a stab at it.

"To freak me the hell out and get me to tell you everything I know?"

"Is it working?" he responded.

"Umm, yeah. Very much so." There was no point in hiding her fear from him. "But I'm still not going to tell you what I said. Hell, for all you know, I may not have said anything to her. And what would I have to tell you then?"


	9. Chapter 9

**A/N: Whew, I've been lazy about my updating. Fail... 0-o But, finally, chapter 9 is here (fanfare) and I've already started chapter 10. Either that'll be the last chapter or I'll have 11, but it depends on how it plays out. I like to wing it. My great thanks to everyone who reviewed or alerted, and especially to jayjayvee, who not only reviewed this but also all my other stuff, and favorited me, and a whole myriad of other things I've forgotten and will feel terrible about forgetting when I remember, and has just generally been freakin' awesome. Anyway, back to business. Hope y'all enjoy CHAPTER NINE! (thunderclap) **

* * *

><p>It was seven hours before Raina woke up from her surgery and another five before she was recovered enough to speak with the police. It was good news, but in the meantime, the clock had gone down to a day, and time wasn't exactly on the verge of stopping. The twelve hours of down time had proven to be slightly beneficial, however. John had finally managed to get Sherlock to sleep, something the other man hadn't done for well over thirty six hours. John tried to sleep himself, but found that the best his distracted mind could manage was to fall into a doze reminiscent of his days in the Army, always halfway aware of what was going on around him. He was up the instant his phone buzzed, and in half an hour he and Sherlock were back at Bart's Hospital.<p>

Raina was able to communicate, but hadn't shaken off the anesthesia yet, so the best they could manage was about five minutes before she was out again. She couldn't tell them anything about her attack they didn't already know, and when Sherlock asked her why she had been coming to see them, she looked confused.

"When Anna was talking to me, she said…" Her voice trailed off as she struggled to remember. The anesthesia was clouding her brain, and she had forgotten what she needed to tell them. "It was something to do with the river, she sounded worried."

"Worried about the river?" John prompted, trying to help jog her memory.

"Something like that. It's odd… we aren't going to the river." She was beginning to fall asleep again, and John could tell they weren't going to get anything more out of her. He tapped Sherlock on the shoulder and motioned towards the door. Outside, the two men tried to make sense of the small amount of information Raina had been able to tell them.

"Why would she say anything about the river if they weren't going there?" John asked the detective. Sherlock shook his head.

"She may just be misremembering. Or-" He stopped, evidently struck by a thought. "Moriarty was worried that Anna had gotten a message through before she was taken. What if-" John cut in as his train of thought arrived at the same point.

"He took her to the river!" Sherlock looked over the moon.

"It makes perfect sense. No one lives there, there are plenty of abandoned buildings, more than likely no one would notice anything strange. And those who did, all he'd have to do would be threaten or bribe them to keep quiet."

"Should we call Lestrade?" John made to pull out his phone, but Sherlock stopped him.

"No, it's only a theory, and if we call him and he sends his lot down to search the river, it'll tip Moriarty off that we're on to him."

"So how are we going to figure out which building they're in?" John asked. "They could be anywhere along either bank, and the Thames isn't a small river." Sherlock had been thinking more or less the same thing, and quite frankly he hadn't come up with a very good answer yet. He tried sounding out his thoughts.

"Well, there are only so many _buildings_ along the river, so that should narrow it down. After that…" He trailed off, thinking hard. He cursed silently at his brain's blasted inefficiency. He knew it was because he'd gotten three hours of sleep over the last three days, essentially running on will power, but at the same time their counter was going down; less than a day now, and they couldn't afford any breaks or delays; sleep would have to wait a while longer. Sherlock's will was at war with his mind, forcing out an answer. Slowly, very slowly, an answer came to him. "Let's get to the Yard. We need a list of every building along the bank of the Thames. It's unlikely he left the London area, so we can discount most of the rest. We need to see that video."

* * *

><p>The good thing about working with Scotland Yard, John reflected, was that they saved quite a lot of time in the legwork department. It would have taken the two men hours to plot out every building along the Thames, but now all they had to do was pull the map out of the computer database. They eliminated every building outside of a three mile radius of the city, lowering the number substantially. Unfortunately at least half of the buildings were within that radius, old factories and docks, holdovers from the Victorian days of the Industrial Revolution, mixed in with refurbished apartments that cost what could only be called an exorbitant amount of money.<p>

"I don't like the look of those numbers." Lestrade remarked. "Even if we were to do a foot search of all of them, we'd never finish in time. Just getting the warrants would take more time then we've got."

"We can narrow it down more by looking at the video." Sherlock told him. "The background can tell us some of what we can eliminate." He pulled out his laptop, brought with him from the hospital. The video came up when he turned it on, and Lestrade cursed. Anna was no longer moving, but she seemed to be breathing. As he watched her, John slipped into doctor mode, assessing her condition as best he could. Evident paralysis, which seemed to be affecting her respiration, but no obvious physical injuries on her body or head. That would be the poison's work. That was, in a twisted sense, actually good news. The fact that it had taken so long to progress indicated that it had been modified and probably distilled. The effects would eventually be enough to be fatal, but until that point they would be weaker. John spared a glance at Sherlock. The detective displayed no obvious signs of emotion, but his jaw was set. Despite having professed on multiple occasions that he didn't care about the victims, there was a difference between a dead body or faceless hostage and actually watching someone die when you had been tasked with saving them. Even he couldn't do that without flinching a little.

"The background can tell us a lot," Sherlock said, pointing at the spaces visible behind Anna. "The brickwork is old, and the wood has been stained and weathered. The building she's in is at least one hundred years old."

"How can you tell that?" Lestrade broke in. "There are dozens of buildings along the riverfront, and over half of them are at least a hundred."

"True, but a lot of them are also being renovated, and turned into very expensive flats. The insides would either be torn up for construction or already complete." Sherlock replied.

"Yeah, I don't get that," John remarked. "Why would anyone pay that kind of money to live by a river that smells like that river?" It was a random thought, given no real bearing, but suddenly something struck a chord in Sherlock's brain.

"Wait…" he muttered, almost to himself. "Lestrade, how many of the buildings are abandoned?" Lestrade entered the parameters into the computer.

"In the search radius, there are sixty that are completely abandoned. Why do you ask?"

"Because look at the state it's in. It's obviously not been inhabited for some time, and Moriarty would have to use something derelict because he'd know we could track the money if he paid for it. How many of those sixty are over a hundred years old?"

"Thirty five. That's still a big number though; could you narrow it down any more?"

"Maybe." Sherlock turned back to the laptop, looking for any small detail he could find. There had to be some way to narrow it down. Moriarty wouldn't have made it impossible to find Anna. That wasn't his style; he would take far greater pleasure in taunting Sherlock for missing the 'obvious' solution if she died. He scoured the screen, looking for any possible thing he might have missed, any detail; and then, it hit him like a ton of bricks. "The sunlight!" He pointed at a small beam shining in the back corner through a hole in the roof. He sighed in exasperation when John and Lestrade didn't follow along. "Look at the sunlight! At this time of the morning, the sun is still on the east, and the light is coming in to the right behind her."

"So, what does that mean?" John asked, his and Lestrade's confusion evident. Sherlock was so caught up he forgot to sigh in exasperation.

"It means, since the sun is coming in to the right, east is to the right of the building they're in. How many buildings on the list are on the north bank of the Thames?" Lestrade answered.

"There're twelve that are abandoned, over a hundred years old, and on the north bank. Do you think that's low enough to check without giving your plan away?" Sherlock calculated the odds in his head, and then nodded.

"As long as we're careful, we shouldn't be spotted. Only me and John, though; more than two people would be noticed, and none of your men are any good at going undetected." Lestrade protested, and the two men argued over the specifics for some time until John's patience broke.

"Calm down, will you? Okay, how about this: what if me and Sherlock look for Anna and when we find her, we'll call you. You and your men can wait by the riverbank, far enough back that you won't be noticed. That way you can get there as fast as possible." After some consideration, and a bit more convincing on John's part, the two men reluctantly agreed to the plan. Five minutes later, map in hand, John and Sherlock raced to the Thames.

* * *

><p><strong>Bit of an abrupt cutoff, I know, but there was no real good spot to finish between this and chapter 10, so I had to make do. You know what would help get chapter 10 up faster? Reviews! O-O I know you're out there, cough 'em up! It doesn't even hurt, either. :)<strong>


	10. Chapter 10

**A/N: So we had an earthquake the other day. It was actually the largest recorded in the state. I was sitting in my living room with dad and I was like 'WTF?' and he was like 'it's an earthquake'. I'm a complete seismology nerd, so I was over the moon when I felt it. I could ramble on for hours about the specifics, so I'm just gonna do all of us a favor and stop talking. :) I don't know how I keep forgetting to say this (oh, wait, because the poles will reverse before I do) but I still don't own Sherlock, or anything connected with it. If I did there would be more than three episodes. Like say thirty. Once again, my great thanks to everyone who reviewed and the rest of you should _take the hint… _**

* * *

><p>"Fourteen hours." Sherlock burst into John's thought process almost as he was having it, startling the doctor.<p>

"Sorry?"

"Fourteen hours. That's how much time we have left. Do you have your gun?" John didn't even stop to question how Sherlock knew he'd been trying to figure out how much time was on the clock; by now he had learned to just roll with it.

"I've got it. If- _when_ we do find her, how are we going to get her out? Moriarty's not going to just let us walk out of there without a fight." Sherlock glanced at him.

"Why do you think I asked if you had your gun?"

* * *

><p>Moriarty paced the room. He wasn't usually the pacing type, but he could make exceptions. He wasn't nervous; at least, that's what he told himself. He was supremely confident in his abilities, up to and far past the point of arrogance. The fact that both men had lived through the pool didn't weigh on his mind; he considered that pure chance, luck on the part of that blasted consulting detective. Moriarty would've offered Sherlock the chance to work with him, before he decided to blow him up, but it was just so much more <em>fun<em> to leave him as an enemy. He turned to face Anna, who was now completely unconscious and barely breathing. Oh, he would enjoy it if Sherlock were to lose.

* * *

><p>John had great faith in Sherlock's abilities, having seen them in action more times than he could count, but as always before a potential resolution, he was nervous. For all he had seen Sherlock crack problems whole governments couldn't, he was also vividly aware of the times when the detective had screwed up, or walked into a trap. In spite of his best efforts to repress them, thoughts of the pool flashed through his mind; he felt almost guilty at the association. Sherlock had done his best, but even he couldn't see the ending when someone else held the cards. Luck and skill, not foresight, had saved them that day. He shifted in the back of the car, attempting to dispel his worries. The potential gaping holes in their assumption about the building they were looking for was the first worry that sprung to mind.<p>

"Sherlock, how do you know he didn't rent a building, or that he's commandeering one?" he asked. Sherlock gave him the briefest of glances before he looked back out the window.

"Because no buildings have been bought or leased in the past year along the riverfront."

"But how do you know he didn't just plan in advance for this 'game' too?"

"He didn't. He wasn't expecting us to survive the pool. He'd have no way to prepare in advance." John's breathing caught when Sherlock mentioned the pool; since that day, they'd studiously avoided any discussion of it by unspoken agreement. He glanced over at Sherlock, who he could tell was deliberately avoiding meeting his gaze. The air between them seemed to stiffen, and finally John decided to break the silence. It was time to get that out of both their systems; they needed to just face up and talk about it or they risked creating bad blood.

"Look, you know that it wasn't your fault what happened." John told him, cutting the younger man off as he attempted an indignant reply. "I may not be you, but I'm not blind, you know. It bothered you, nearly dying like that, and you know that Moriarty will do his damndest to use that against you." Sherlock's pre-prepared curt response was silenced by the intensity in John's voice. What he said was true; both of them had been more than lucky to survive, and though he'd never admit it (hardly even to himself) Sherlock had felt a distinct sense of guilt over it. Logically, he knew it made less than no sense to blame himself for all that had gone wrong. There was no way he could have predicted what Moriarty would have done, not when the man had set it up so that he was five steps ahead no matter the play, and with the exception of the old woman and those around her he had managed to rescue every hostage. But logic was not enough. Much as he claimed to be a sociopath, it wasn't true, and the emotions he hid from the world had turned on him after the pool, telling him that despite what logic said it _was_ his fault; John had nearly died because of him. The distance had grown between the two men, and despite John's best efforts, Sherlock hadn't opened up any since then. He debated with himself for a moment, and then decided to throw caution to the winds; John wasn't going to let the matter pass this time, so he may as well be honest about it.

"It wasn't that," he told him. John looked at him, thoroughly surprised he'd actually replied.

"It wasn't what?"

"It wasn't nearly dying that bothered me; I could care less about that." Sherlock continued staring out the window, concentrating on keeping his voice as blank as possible. John looked confused, but not entirely surprised.

"So what was it that got to you so much? You practically stopped talking to me for a month." Sherlock laughed shortly.

"Do you really want to know? It's partly my pride; he won and I lost."

"Do we look dead to you? Because I don't think we do. We won just by living through it, and I guarantee you that's getting under his skin as much as it got under yours. What was the other part?" Sherlock considered his response carefully, trying to convey the issue. Before John came along, there were _maybe_ one or two people not related to him that Sherlock had ever cared for. And neither of those previous people had ever been put in life-threatening danger because of him. Well, even that wasn't entirely true. He breathed in deeply and took the full plunge.

"It was because of you," he said. "If it had just been me, if you hadn't been there, I wouldn't have been bothered. But you were in danger, and…" He trailed off, lost for words to articulate his feelings. John seemed to get the gist of it, however.

"I've been in danger before, you know," he responded gently. "That was nothing new."

"I know. I know you were in a lot of danger before that, but that was different; _I_ was the one who put you in danger that time. I do care about you; you're my friend, and I nearly got you killed. If it wasn't for you, we both would have died, and if it wasn't for me we'd never have gotten to that point." Sherlock fell silent, and John sighed.

"I care about you too. And yes, what happened was a massive pile-up of disasters, but there was no way in hell you could have stopped any of it. Moriarty had his plan all along, and it would have ended up how it did one way or another; you know that. None of this was your fault. We did not nearly die because of you. We nearly died because of _him_, and we survived because you could think quickly enough to come up with quite possibly the stupidest plan ever devised." John smiled at the end, trying to get his point across and break the repressed atmosphere. It seemed to work. Sherlock gave him just the slightest grin, and the stiff tension in the air faded. John breathed an internal sigh of relief, some of the stress leaving him. All of that stress shot back into home, however, at the next words that reached his ears.

"We're here. Time to go."

* * *

><p>The north bank of the river Thames might possibly have been the most unpleasant spot on earth. At least, the part they were searching might well have been. It made sense; the nastier an area was, the less people who would go there for any reason. The desertion and disrepair made for a good hiding place. And, John couldn't deny, it certainly helped when one was trying not to be spotted. No one to sound the alarm, and lots of random, abandoned junk to get cover behind. He felt glad for the familiar weight of the handgun in his jacket. He knew good and well how to use it, and after his last encounter with Moriarty, his trigger finger was itching for the chance.<p>

The first five of the dozen buildings marked off were well and truly abandoned; obviously no one had been using any of them for years. John began to dismay as each one struck out. With the extra need for secrecy and the muddy, tangled nature of the terrain, they were now down to just under half a day; if Anna were to survive at all, and without any serious health problems, they would have to find her soon. Each minute they spent checking a false lead was a minute closer to her death, and their failure. Six and seven provided no leads either, but as they crept up to the eighth building, a small warehouse with a tattered roof, Sherlock's hand shot out like a rocket, stopping John in his tracks.

"Is this it?" John whispered, reaching for his gun. Sherlock looked at him and mouthed 'maybe'. He gestured to the muddy ground.

"Footprints," he whispered. "Recent, too. Somebody's been here within the last two days, more than one person. No sign of them leaving."

"I wish we could be a little more certain."

"Yes, but we're rapidly running out of time. Do you have your gun out?" He glanced at John, who nodded in confirmation. He pulled his weapon out and the two men made their way up to the warehouse's outside wall. John breathed in deeply and slowly, mentally preparing himself for the siege. It was all or nothing now. He looked at Sherlock, waiting for the other man's sign. Sherlock nodded once shortly, then swung around and pulled open the door. John covered him and followed as he went in. The moment they were in the door the shooting started.


	11. Chapter 11

**A/N: Holy crap, it's the last chapter. It's going to feel so freakin' weird when I'm done. 0-o My great and eternal thanks to everyone who reviewed, especially jayjayvee and Cookie05, and to everyone who alerted and favorited, whom it would take me far too long to list. And if you're reading this right now, thanks for reading all the way to the end. :) And seriously, if I can't get you to review the LAST chapter... Come on, people! I don't care whether you say you liked it or you say go die in a hole, just tell me _something_. :P**

* * *

><p>They managed to take down the first henchman without firing a shot, but the second didn't prove to be such a quiet job. He pulled out his weapon and fired wildly, clearly not caring what he would hit. John raised his gun at him, fired one into his chest, killing him immediately, and raced over to the body. He picked the henchman's gun up and handed it over to Sherlock.<p>

"Save your bullets," he told him. "I think we're going to need them." The sounds of more feet running their way sent them into retreat in a deserted area of the warehouse, an old backroom with one door in and out. They took cover behind a wooden box from God knew when as Moriarty's men entered the room. John waited until they were clustered in the same open area before giving Sherlock a brief nod. Simultaneously, the two men fired. Both of their shots found home, and the remaining three men scattered, making for cover, firing wildly over their shoulders. Most of their bullets flew high, thumping harmlessly into the wooden rafters. Sherlock and John broke for the way they had come through, pulling the heavy door shut and blocking it from the outside. Feeling better about the numbers, the two men raced through until they came to the central part of the warehouse.

"How many do you reckon are left?" John half-whispered, half-mouthed to Sherlock as they took a moment to catch their breath. Sherlock shrugged and shook his head.

"Not too many. Moriarty wouldn't want anyone who wasn't absolutely vital to be involved; he likes to keep his numbers low." Sherlock gently placed his hand on the doorknob, and the two men collected a breath. John steeled his nerves, met Sherlock's gaze, and nodded once, sharply. Sherlock twisted the handle downward and flung the door open, and he and John went into the room, guns drawn. As they had done so many times in the field, John's eyes first swept the room for assailants or potential threats, ready to fire at a moment's notice. Finding none, he looked for Anna. The warehouse interior was dark and dim even in the noonday sun, but it took John only moments to spot her.

He dashed over to her, his mind completely refocusing on treatment, switching out of combat mode. He had brought a knife along, and he pulled it out, slicing easily through the ropes binding Anna to the chair. He lifted her off and placed her flat on the ground, tilting her head back to help with her breathing. He checked for respiration, heart rate, and pupil dilation. Mercifully, she was still alive, but she didn't have long. He turned to Sherlock. "Finish the sweep and see if there are any more men here; I'll call Lestrade." Sherlock nodded silently and moved off, gun at the ready. John pulled out his phone and spoke to the inspector.

"We're in building eight, toward the center. Two injured, two dead, and three are trapped in a side room with only one entrance. Anna's still alive, but barely. Sherlock's looking for Moriarty."

* * *

><p>Sherlock moved through the darkened warehouse, gun drawn, senses alert. Nothing stirred except small particles in the air, and looking down, Sherlock could see two pairs of footprints in the thick coat of dust on the floor. He narrowed his eyes and followed the tracks to the door. He flung the door open and faced the empty street. Moriarty was gone, no doubt leaving the moment the first shot was fired; he had said it himself, he didn't like to get his hands dirty. Sherlock swore loudly. He had missed him again, and who knew how long it would be before he got another chance. He turned and saw Lestrade's men running toward them and waved his hand in the air.<p>

"Over here!" he hollered. The paramedics rushed in, followed closely by the police, and Sherlock led them back through the tunnel-like warehouse to Anna and John, where the emergency technicians swarmed around her. John moved out of the way and went over to Sherlock.

"Anything?" he asked, half hoping he'd hear something he wanted to, but knowing what the answer would be. Sherlock shook his head.

"He was gone by the time we got to this room; probably the moment the shooting started." Sherlock gritted his jaw; missing the bastard once had been bad enough. Missing him twice was really starting to get on Sherlock's nerves. John sighed.

"I guess there's always the next fight. When do you think he'll be back?" Sherlock glanced at him.

"We'll just have to wait and see."

* * *

><p>Moriarty's last remaining henchman was steadfastly silent as the car drove away, knowing that the slightest comment could end with his death; he hadn't said a word since the shooting had begun. Moriarty himself stared out the window, his face a mask of barely controlled fury. He had briefly considered killing Anna properly before he made his exist, just to spite the damned consulting detective, but he had decided against it. Rules were rules, even if you were the one who made them, and so he had relented, contenting himself with making a clean escape, leaving his presence to simmer in Sherlock's mind. There was always next time.<p>

* * *

><p>The scene cleared up fast. There was no body, and all of Moriarty's henchmen had been either apprehended or killed by the emergency response team. Anna was rushed to the hospital, where she was put on a respirator and given an antitoxin. She spent the next two days in the Intensive Care Unit, fighting the toxin along with a variety of other, smaller injuries. Slowly but surely, the paralysis wore off until finally she was able to breathe on her own and see visitors. Sherlock and John had left her alone for a couple of days, figuring that she'd want time to recover fully, and finishing up an incident report that was longer than the case itself. However, she surprised them the next day by asking if they would come and see her.<p>

"I just wanted to say thank you," she told them. Her voice was hoarse from lack of use and the irritation of the respirator, and she coughed hard before continuing. "If it weren't for you two, I'd be very, very dead right now. Did you catch him?" Sherlock hesitated briefly before going with the simplest response.

"No. He got away before we got there." Anna nodded slowly, taking the news better than they had expected. She looked at them again.

"Do you think that he'll come back?" Sherlock once again opted for the straight truth.

"Yes, he will. But not for you." Anna's response to that startled both men.

"Oh, I know that. It's you he was after, not me." She looked Sherlock straight in the eye. "Watch yourself when he does come back; he's good at what he does, and he doesn't seem like the giving up type." Sherlock gave her a small smile.

"Oh, I'll be careful. I'm no scratch at my job either. So you're going home tomorrow, aren't you?" Anna smiled.

"Yup. And please be assured that it's nothing personal when I say that there ain't no way in hell I'll be coming back. I've had quite enough of England after this."

* * *

><p>They finished up the lengthy report with Scotland Yard the next day. While not having to strictly follow all the rules of the official police force was good for solving cases, it made documenting them a little bit tricky. The report's opinion was that they had gotten their guns from the henchmen they disarmed, glossing conveniently over the fact that the weapons were two different calibers. Everyone knew it was, to put it lightly, a gentle fabrication of the truth, but the overall consensus was that if there were anyone Scotland Yard <em>trusted<em> running around the city with a gun, it was Dr. John Watson.

When they got back to the flat, John was very well near worn out enough to sleep until that time next week. He dropped onto the couch with a groan and leaned back, wanting to make tea, but too damn tired to move. To his immense surprise, Sherlock sat down next to him five minutes later, tea in hand, and gave a cup to John.

"Thanks," John told him, taking a drink. "Oh, boy, am I glad that's over." Sherlock nodded thoughtfully.

"He'll be back, you know. Anna was right; he's not going to give up any time soon." It was John's turn to nod.

"I know. But quite frankly as long as it's not for at least a week's worth of sleep, I could care less right about now. We'll deal with that when it happens." John gave Sherlock the look that Sherlock normally gave to him. "How much is it bothering you that he got away again?" Sherlock shrugged evasively.

"We did technically win, if that's what you're asking about. Anna was found alive, and all of his henchmen but one were captured... There'll always be another fight; I'll catch him next time."

"You mean _we'll _catch him next time," John corrected him. "I thought you would know by now that you're not going to get rid of me that easily. I'm not the giving up type either." John gave Sherlock a smile, which the other man returned. Moriarty would be back, they knew. But that was a different fight for a different day, and when it came they would fight him together. For now, though, they were content to just sit back on the couch and drink tea.

"Hey Sherlock?"

"Hmm?"

"Want to see if there's anything on the telly?"


End file.
